


12 Days of Supernatural

by gabrielstolethetardis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU - Christmas, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas Fluff, Fangirls, M/M, Metafiction, Twelve Days of Fic-mas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielstolethetardis/pseuds/gabrielstolethetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The days until Christmas are numbered, and Sam has decided to spruce up the holiday season with a Christmas party! Presents must be bought, plans made, and hearts captured.</p><p>One chapter per each of the 12 days of Supernatural. (Based off of the fan art. If you haven't seen it, look it up. It's cute.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Angel Watching Pornography

           Dean shoulders his way in through a dark-washed wooden door marked “4” at the Night Owl Motel, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Sam follows close behind, clutching his laptop under one arm, and he catches the door after Dean. In the distance, the faint strains of ‘We Three Kings’ can be heard—some early carolers, Dean supposes. Then, the door swings shut, cutting off their song.

 

            The room is dark, nighttime filtering in through the windows; Dean gropes around the wall for a moment before he finds the light switch, flicking it upwards.

 

            The figure sitting on one of the beds glances up, headphones stuck in both ears and connected to an old, clunky laptop, and Dean’s hand twitches towards his gun before the moment of surprise passes. Taking one headphone out of his ear, the angel on the bed nods at the Winchesters. “Hello, Dean. Sam.”

 

            “Damnit, Cas,” Dean mutters, pushing his duffle bag onto one of the chairs sitting around the table in the corner and running a hand over his face. “How long have you been here?”

 

            Cas looks back at the computer. “Not long. A few hours.”

 

            Dean trades a glance with Sam, sees his brother give a small shrug of his shoulders, and sighs, approaching Cas’s bed. “What’s going on in Heaven?”

 

            Cas angles slightly so the computer screen faces away from Dean, attempting to be nonchalant about the gesture. “The situation hasn’t changed.”

 

            Dean narrows his eyes at the computer. “What’re you doing?”

 

            Cas remains silent for a moment. He glances at the screen again. “Nothing.”

 

            Dean pauses, rolling his lips together. Then, he sits down on the bed next to Cas and turns the computer screen towards him. Cas, with a resigned frown, lets him.

 

            Dean’s eyebrows shoot upwards towards his hairline. “Porn?”

 

            Sam, sorting through the duffle, lets out a loud, barking laugh and then tries to cover it up with a strangled-sounding cough. Cas takes the other headphone from his ear, looking down in embarrassment. “You always watch it,” he mumbles, and Dean feels his ears start to heat up.

 

            “I do not.”

 

            “Dude, you so do,” Sam snickers from across the room.

 

            “Dean,” Cas says in a shaky voice before Dean can tell off Sam. “Something’s happening.”

 

            Dean looks over at Cas, who is staring at his lap in horrified fascination. He glances up and meets Dean’s eyes, and the confusion in them makes a laugh bubble up inside of Dean. “My vessel is malfunctioning again.”

 

            Dean reaches over and slowly closes the laptop. “Let me explain something to you, Cas.”

 

            Once Cas has been informed on the nature of erections, he nods slowly. “I understand.”

 

            “Awesome.” Dean leans up against one of the pillows, folding his arms behind his head. He closes his eyes and rests his head on the bedframe.

 

            “But Dean…”

 

            Without opening his eyes: “Yeah?”

 

            “It’s not going away.”

 

            Sam snickers again. “Shut up, Sam,” Dean grumbles, reluctantly opening his eyes and sitting up straight.

 

            “I think you should show him.”

 

            “ _Shut up, Sam._ ”

 

            Cas cocks his head to the side. “Show me what?”

 

            Dean grits his teeth. “Nothing.” He grabs Cas’s arm and drags him up and out the door. “We’re going for a walk.” When the door slams, it shakes the whole room.

 

            Still grinning, Sam pops a Christmas CD into his CD player, setting to work on their faux Christmas tree as bright piano fills the room, accompanied by vocals. Sam hangs an ornament on a plastic branch, humming along to the music.

 

            ‘ _On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…’_


	2. Two Fake ID's

           Dean fingers his ID, running his thumb over the words “Jimmy Page”. A small smile finds its way to his lips, and he glances over at Cas—“Agent Robert Plant”—and says, “Ready?”

 

            Cas nods, holding up the FBI badge. “Like this?”

 

            Dean smiles again, for a different reason entirely, and flips Cas’s badge right side up. “Like this.”

 

            Cas glances at the badge in his hands and nods. Then, hesitantly: “Are you sure we shouldn’t go get Sam?”

 

            Dean is shaking his head before Cas even gets the sentence out. “Nah. Sammy needs his alone time. Christmas always seems to bring out his feminine side. He’s probably braiding his hair or something.”

 

            Cas nods again, this time with a humored smile, and then he puts a pale hand on the metal door in front of him and pushes inward. The bright, flashing lights of the club illuminate the dark streets outside, and with a grimace, Dean steps into the warmth, tucking his ID into the front inside pocket of his black blazer. Cas follows close behind, hovering near Dean’s shoulder as they push through a dense mass of flailing arms and sweaty bodies to the bar.

 

            Dean swings onto a bar stool, and Cas clambers up onto one next to him. “Two shots of…” He glances at Cas, who gives a noncommittal shrug. “Surprise us.”

 

            The bartender, a man in his thirties with chunky-rimmed glasses and an awful Christmas sweater, glances between the two of them and nods, turning around to the rows of bottles balanced on the back wall.

 

            Cas frowns. “I thought we had a case, Dean. Shouldn’t we be investigating?”

 

            The bartender turns around, alcohol in hand, and Dean eyes it approvingly. “Eventually.”

 

            “Two shots of tequila,” the bartender announces, sliding the glasses in front of Dean and Cas. “And, if it’s not overstepping my boundaries, may I say that you two make the _cutest_ couple.”

 

            Dean’s cheeks are redder than the bartender’s sweater. He stutters out something about how he and Cas are _not_ a couple, to which the bartender only expresses a look of disbelief. “Sure,” he says, drumming his fingers on the counter. Then, he gives Cas a grin with way too many teeth that sets Dean’s teeth on edge. “In that case, this drink’s on me.” He winks at Cas flirtatiously, tapping the bar once in front of Cas’s shot glass, before moving on to the next people, leaving Cas slightly flabbergasted.

 

            Dean picks up his shot and downs it in one gulp. It burns a fiery path down his throat, and he lets out a small cough that morphs into a larger one when Cas says suddenly, “That man’s sweater is an abomination of nature.”

 

            Dean snorts. “Who even _wears_ something like that?”

 

            Cas flushes suddenly red. He grabs his shot glass and downs the tequila in one swig, his face screwing up and his lips puckering. “I had a phase,” he mutters, but Dean doesn’t hear him over the driving bass and overlapping conversations, half-shouted over the din.

 

            Then, all at once, he sees it: the couples scattered among the tables and the dance floor—women chatting over margaritas, men beer—are all…

 

            Dean feels suddenly exposed. “Damnit, Sam,” he curses, and Cas glances at him in confusion. “You could have _told_ me this was a gay bar!”

 

            Cas frowns. “He didn’t tell you?”

 

            “He told _you?_ ”

 

            “Of course.”

 

            Just then, a hand settles on Dean’s shoulder, followed by a chirpy, “Well, aren’t you a cutie?”

 

            Dean glares, first at the hand and then at its carrot-top owner. “Seriously?”

 

            “Oh.” The redhead removes his hand, his cheeks coloring slightly. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here with someone.”

 

            “We are _not a couple_ ,” Dean growls, standing and dragging Cas to his feet as well. “And we were just leaving.”

 

            “But Dean, I’m not yet drunk—“ Cas protests as Dean starts to pull him away through the crowd.

 

            “Hold on.” Cas is suddenly ripped from Dean’s grasp, and he whips around to see another man, a drunken one with raven-black hair and deep blue eyes like Cas’s, with a firm hold on Cas’s shoulder. “You can’t leave before this one dances with me.” He tugs Cas in tighter, spinning the angel around and kissing him roughly.

 

            Dean sees spots. “Don’t you touch him!” he exclaims, shoving the drunken man away from Cas in a bout of red-hot rage. Then, before he can do things he will regret, he turns away, sweeping a startled Cas through the crowd and out the way they came, leaving the lights and noise behind for the cool, calm winter night.

 

            “Dean,” Cas says quietly as Dean storms towards the Impala. “What—?”

 

            “Just get in the car, Cas.”

 

            Cas follows Dean to the Impala, cracking open the passenger side door and swinging himself inside. Just before he closes the door, he fingers a strip of napkin in his pocket, feeling the inked numbers against his finger pads, and then lets it flutter to the pavement. The Impala roars away, its tires slipping slightly on the ice, and the number is sent spinning, flying away into the night.

 


	3. Three Demons

           Exchanging gifts had been Sam’s idea, of course. Dean was okay with that at first—they had given each other presents, little, silly things, in previous years, before things got bad—but then Sam mentioned the demons.

 

             Azazel, Lilith, and Abbadon. Three of Hell’s finest, and Sam thinks it’s _okay_ to invite them to their Christmas party, to buy them _gifts?_

 

          “What do you even _buy_ a demon?” Dean asks in exasperation, pushing a blue plastic cart through the Wal-Mart aisles. Next to him, Cas stares at the bright colors and white-washed walls with a sort of fascination, and Dean has to bump the angel with the cart before he notices Dean’s question.

 

            “How about this?” Cas suggests, grabbing the closest thing off a shelf. He holds up a dark red lacy thong. “For Abbadon?”

 

            Dean’s cheeks flare as red as the underwear. “Put that down,” he sputters, grabbing the hanger out of Cas’s hands and throwing it haphazardly back on the shelf. “We are _not_ getting her that.”

 

            While Cas pouts, Dean searches through a shelf of inspirational wooden text signs, pushing aside ones reading ‘FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS’ and ‘LOVE THY NEIGHBOR’ with a sour face. “People buy this shit?” he asks, accidentally knocking one to the ground. “Crap.”

 

            “I’ve got it,” Cas says, bending down to retrieve the sign. His trench coat rides up slightly, exposing soft, black-clad curves, and Dean bites his lip. _Don’t stare, don’t stare_ , he mentally chides himself, studying a small brown sign intently until Cas straightens, the square red sign in hand. He glances at the text, scans it quickly, and then laughs in that way of his, where his mouth quirks upwards slightly and his shoulders bob up and down with each exhalation. “This is quite humorous,” he says, handing the sign to Dean.

 

            Dean reads it aloud. “The moment when the little voice inside your head says, ‘Yep, you’re going to Hell.’” He smirks. “I like your sense of humor, Cas.” He drops the sign into the cart; it makes a hollow clank against the plastic. “There. One down, two to go.”

 

            They wander around the store for a while, Dean pointing out the ridiculous things people wear to Cas—“Like, look at him. Jesus, wear a belt.” “That man is not Jesus, Dean.” “Yeah, Cas, I know.”—and Cas taking random items off of the shelves every so often. Action figures, cookie cutters, high-heeled boots: every time, Dean rolls his eyes at Cas, and every time, he has to deal with Cas’s sad eyes.

 

            Dean is in the middle of telling Cas that no, he _cannot_ get cat food—“We don’t even have a cat, Cas!” “We could get one.”—when a pixie-haired store employee wearing a baggy blue polo and scuffed Chuck Taylors pauses next to their cart. “Can I help you two with anything?” she asks with forced cheerfulness, twisting a black cuff around her wrist.

 

            “No—“ Dean begins, but Cas cuts him off.

 

            “We are shopping for Christmas gifts for the demons Azazel, Lilith, and Abbadon, and we cannot agree on what to get them. Do you have any suggestions?”

 

            Dean runs a hand over his face. The girl pops her gum once, squinting at Cas. “Aisle seven. In the back.”

 

            While Dean stares at the girl, Cas nods. “Thank you.”

 

            The girl rolls her eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Nice cosplays, by the way. You’ve really got the whole 5 o’clock shadow going there.” She waves one frail hand in the general direction of Dean before brushing past him, her shoes dragging against the dull tile floor.

 

            Dean blinks once, turning to look at Cas. “What the _hell_ is a cosplay?”

 

            Cas squints at the girl as she rounds the corner and disappears from sight. “Your guess is as good as mine.” Then, he drops the cat food into the cart and takes off, and Dean curses as he struggles to keep up with him.

 

            Cas takes long strides to aisle seven, so by the time Dean reaches him, Cas has already taken the time to absorb the display in front of him with wide eyes. Dean is about to say something snarky, maybe along the lines of “If you wanted time away from me, you should have just asked,” but then he sees it, and his words get sucked down his throat.

 

            Supernatural posters. Supernatural tee shirts. Supernatural jewelry and vinyl figures and phone cases. It’s like Chuck himself threw up all over aisle seven, spewing fan merchandise everywhere. Dean shudders. “That’s just creepy.” He picks up a vacuum-sealed package labeled “Dean Winchester and Impala”, raising an eyebrow at the plastic figurines enclosed inside. “It doesn’t even _look_ like me.”

 

            When Dean turns, setting the figurines back on the shelf, he sees Cas holding a shirt to his chest, looking down and stretching the sides slightly to gauge size. “What do you think?” he asks, displaying it for Dean. On black fabric, white angel wings wrap around a pistol, a faint pentagram in the background; Cas smooths his hand over the design, brushing out imaginary wrinkles.

 

            “Give me that,” Dean says, taking the shirt from Cas and tossing it back on the pile. His cheeks burn. Thankfully, Cas is too innocent to realize the meaning of the shirt; he frowns at Dean, eyes squinting, bottom lip sticking out slightly.

 

            “Fine,” Cas huffs, grabbing a set of vinyls off the shelf. “Then these.” He holds up the boxes, revealing a mini-Dean, mini-Cas, and mini-Sam. “Buy two, get one free.”

 

            “No.” Dean reaches for the boxes, but Cas holds them out of reach. “Do you really want little versions of _us_ around the motel? Or the bunker?”

 

            “They don’t even look like us, Dean.”

 

            “I said no, and that’s final!”

 

            Fifteen minutes later, Dean hands his credit card over to a middle-aged man with a long, scraggly beard, eyeing the little boxes poking out of a gray plastic bag with tired resignation. 65 dollars later, he and Cas are in the Impala, driving through crowded city streets to the motel, the plastic bags sliding around in the back seat. Cas keeps glancing back at the bags, making sure his vinyl figurines stay safe, even though Dean explains to him multiple times that, “They’re plastic, Cas. They don’t break.”

 

            Dean accelerates through a yellow, and Cas says suddenly, “Thank you, Dean.”

 

            “What? For the creepy dolls?” Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “If you wanted them that badly, who was I to tell you that you couldn’t have them?”

 

            “Yes,” Cas agrees. “For the dolls. But also for everything else.”

 

            Dean feels Cas’s eyes on him, but for once, he keeps his eyes on the road, afraid of what Cas might see written plainly across his face. “Of course,” is all he says. Then, because he can’t help himself: “I care about you, Cas. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

 

            Cas says nothing, but Dean can sense his smile.


	4. Four Bags of Salt

          As soon as Cas can find the time, he vanishes from the Winchesters’ motel room, reappearing in a small coastal town in Greece. The breeze, much warmer than the gusts of wind in Wisconsin, brushes his hair back from his forehead, and though he does not have to, he takes in a deep breath, tasting the sea’s salty tang.

           

            Salt. Cas moves from the concealed space in which he had appeared into thesunlight, taking a moment to appreciate the lack of snow before heading deeper into the village. He passes dark-haired humans, some fair-skinned, some olive-toned, and he can’t help but think that Dean would like it here, away from all the trouble back home. But if Dean were here, that would ruin the surprise.

 

            Sam suggested it, actually, when Cas asked him with a troubled expression what he should get Dean for Christmas. He expected something along the lines of weaponry or alcohol, but Sam surprised him when he glanced at Cas with a bemused smile and said, “You.”

 

            Though Cas tried to explain to Sam that he could not, in fact, wrap himself and lay under the Christmas tree Sam had installed in the motel, Sam only chuckled and walked away. After some consideration, Cas interpreted Sam’s suggestion the best he could, waited until Dean left the motel, and then teleported to Greece.

 

            Now, Cas enters a bustling marketplace, filled with the sounds of vendors hawking their merchandise, occasional offers shouted across the crowd by excited tourists, and the soft noises of some sort of flute. Cas begins to head towards the source of the music, momentarily mesmerized, but then strong hands guide his shoulders towards a rickety wooden stand, a voice saying in broken English, “Come. You like, you buy. No cost many Euros.”

 

            Cas, too startled to protest, allows himself to be carried away until he stands in front of an array of seashells, some as large as his head, some smaller than his thumbnail. Brilliant whites, soft pinks, dark blacks, radiant blues, and mellow greens color the shells like a watercolor painting, so polished Cas can see his reflection staring back at him in wonderment.

 

            The vendor, with dark black, curly hair and tanned hands, watches Cas expectantly as the angel reaches forward and delicately picks up a large black and white conch shell. He runs his fingers over the spirals, feeling a slightly rough spot where the shell’s surface is not quite polished completely, and turns to the man. “How much?”

 

            “Four Euros.”

 

            While Cas rummages in the pockets of his trench coat for the converted Euros he borrowed from Sam’s wallet, the vendor retreats behind his stand and begins to set out other items: a pair of yellow spiral shells, fragile-looking dried seahorses and starfish, necklaces made of shells the size of peas. When the vendor sets a box full of bags of salt on the table, Cas’s hand stills halfway out of his pocket.

 

            Sensing Cas’s gaze, the vendor meets the angel’s curious blue eyes and gestures to the salt. “You like?”

 

            Cas nods, handing the vendor the payment for the conch shell without taking his eyes off of the salt. Slipping the shell into his pocket and waving away the vendor’s offer of a bag, Cas studies the bags of salt, picking one up and turning it over a few times in his hands.

 

            “Fresh from Mediterranean,” the vendor informs him, pointing over Cas’s shoulder. “I make myself. Best salt you ever eat.”

 

            “It is not for consumption.” Cas scoops four bags from the box, laying them flat on the table. “Four please.”

 

            Once Cas pays for the salt, slipping the vendor the rest of Sam’s Euros, he prepares to depart for the bitter cold of Wisconsin again, but the voice of the vendor stops him. “You American?”

 

            Cas considers this a moment. “Not exactly.”

 

            “You sound American.” The vendor waves a hand at Cas, a wild gesture that almost knocks over his entire stand. “You dress like American.”

 

            Cas glances down at his trench coat. “I am one of God’s children, an citizen of Heaven. However, I do currently reside in the United States.”

 

            The vendor nods in understanding. “Yes. We are all children of God. Live on Earth until time comes to take rightful place in salvation.” He gives Cas a toothy smile, one front tooth slightly crooked, and Cas’s protests die on his lips. Instead, he returns the smile, his faint and fleeting but still there.

 

            “Thank you for the salt,” Cas says, nodding his head at the vendor. “And the shell.” Then, almost as an afterthought, like he believes the vendor out to know: “They’re gifts for a friend.”

 

          Even as Cas says the word ‘friend’, it sounds wrong, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit; the vendor must hear it too, because he scans his table quickly before selecting a pink shell the size of his fist from the outer left edge and extending it to Cas. The shell swoops up steeply, tapering from pencil-thin to bulbous, with dull spikes spiraling from tip to tip; after a few moments, Cas takes it gingerly, surprised to find that the spikes have rounded tips that press softly into the flesh of his palm. “For your ‘friend’,” the vendor says, and his voice is playful and caring all at once. “ _Είναι τυχερός γυναίκα_.”

 

            Cas frowns, tilting his head at the vendor. “Dean is not a female. But yes, he does seem to possess considerable amounts of luck in certain situations.”

 

            “You speak Greek. _Άριστη_.” The vendor holds out his hands palms up, adopting a neutral expression. “Male, female, does not matter to me. Love is love.”

 

            “Love?” Cas almost drops the shell, realizing himself at the last moment and regaining his grip. “I think you have misunderstood our relationship—“

 

            The vendor is already shaking his head. “No misunderstanding. I see on your face; you love this ‘Dean’. It is obvious.” He grins at Cas. “Although perhaps you, _αδελφός_ , do not know it yet.”

 

            Though Cas feels slightly flattered that this nameless Greek vendor has called him a brother through Christ, he feels the sudden need to get away. He excuses himself politely, remembering the social graces he acquired during his time with the Winchesters, offering to pay for the pink shell, but the vendor refuses. “Give it to your _σύζυγος_. Tell him how you feel.” He waves Cas’s protests away, and eventually Cas bids him farewell in Greek, slipping the shell into his pocket where it clicks gently against the other and crossing the square with long strides.

 

            It is not until Cas is safely away from the prying eyes of the marketplace crowd that he allows himself to feel the full effects of the vendor’s words. He stops in a secluded alleyway and leans his forehead against the stone wall, feeling the slight moisture seep into his skin. His heart feels like it is clenching in his chest, beating out an irregular rhythm in time with his breaths, which suddenly seem very necessary. His head spins and he closes his eyes, trying to even out his breathing and restore oxygen to his brain, but he only succeeds in allowing himself room to think.

 

            _Αγάπη_. The Greek word for ‘love’. Such a beautifully spoken word, yet something so foreign to Cas he wouldn’t have recognized it had it stood on his shoes and slapped him across the face. But now it had arrived, perched directly in the front of Cas’s thoughts, and begged for attention, waving the vendor’s words at him like pieces of condemning evidence.

 

            A passing human pauses and asks in garbled Greek if Cas needs any help, if he’s okay. Cas straightens, hoping his face doesn’t betray his internal conflict, and assures her that yes, he is okay, no, he does not need any help. She doesn’t ask twice, instead continuing her descent down the winding roadway, her long dress flapping at the ankles.

 

            Before Cas can think twice about leaving, he arrives back in the Wisconsin motel with a flutter of wings and a rush of air, startling Sam. He nearly knocks over his laptop, and Cas apologizes immediately.

 

            “It’s fine,” Sam assures him, closing the lid of his computer. He wrinkles his nose slightly, sniffing the air in confusion. “You smell like… salt. Where did you go?”

 

            Cas fingers the shells in one pocket, the bags of salt in the other; Greece already seems so far away. “Christmas shopping.”

 


	5. Five Burnt Ceilings

           When Sam comes home from grocery shopping, yellow plastic Festival bags in hand, he finds Dean lying on the motel bed, staring up at the ceiling with a lost expression on his face. “Hey,” Sam tries, but Dean doesn’t seem to hear him; his eyes are glazed over, his mouth slack. “Dean!”

 

            Dean jerks out of his trance, his eyes blinking rapidly until they clear. He shifts his weight so he’s slumped against the headboard instead of supporting the back of his head with his crossed arms and grunts at his brother. “Hey. You’re home early.”

 

            “Yeah, the lines were short.” Sam squints at Dean, setting the bags on the kitchen table and beginning to sort the refrigerated food from the non. “What’s wrong? You were kind of out of it for a bit.”

 

            Silence. Sam takes a few things out of the bags—plastic containers of whipped cream, raw yams, sourdough rolls—and is reaching for another when Dean blurts, “Do you ever think about Jess? Or Mom? Or, hell, even Dad?”

 

            Sam’s hand stills. “Yeah, of course,” he says quietly, glancing over at his brother. Dean is sitting up straight now, drumming his fingers on his knee, but it’s the expression on his brother’s face—the one of absolute fear, of apprehension, of anticipated sorrow—that sends him over to the bed to sit next to Dean. “What happened?”

 

            Dean shook his head. “Nothing. I just… Christmas, you know. It’s hard to celebrate when I can’t think of anything _to_ celebrate.”

 

            “What about Cas?” Sam suggests, and simply the mention of the angel’s name makes Dean’s face softer, just for a moment, before it falls again.

 

            “We have lost everything, Sam,” Dean says, his voice tight and restricted. “We lost Mom, before you even knew her. We lost Dad. You lost Jess—and I know I’ve never apologized for that before but I will now, because if I’d never dragged you away from Stanford on that ghost hunt then she might still be _alive_ —“

 

            “Dean, _stop_ ,” Sam says forcefully, feeling his heart lurch. “Listen, none of that was your fault. Azazel would have killed her one way or another, whether or not I’d left to chase after Dad with you, and you know that. What’s this really about?”

 

            Dean bites his lip, saying nothing, and Sam frowns. “Is this about Cas?”

 

            “Not everything’s about Cas,” Dean mumbles, but Sam knows that he’s hit a soft spot; the drumming of Dean’s fingers speeds up, and suddenly the bedspread is an object of intense interest.

 

            “With you, it kinda is,” Sam points out.

 

            “Look, it’s not just Cas, okay?” Dean’s words are harsh, angry, but Sam knows that’s how Dean gets when deep down he’s worried and scared, afraid to let what he thinks of as weaknesses show. “It’s you, too. You and Cas are the last two people on the planet I care about. It just seems wrong to celebrate when so much still hangs in the balance.”

 

            “It’s not wrong.” Sam smiles, glancing around the motel room. Everywhere, lights sparkle, refracting off of the tinsel strung across lampshades and curtain rods. The tree, adorned thickly with ornaments in the forms of car air fresheners, various key chains, and Christmas-colored glass bulbs Sam picked up from the Dollar Tree across the street, has hastily-wrapped gift boxes already positioned underneath its lower boughs, labeled in sloppy handwriting. Lit candles fill the room with the scents of sugar cookies, cinnamon, and evergreen, and Sam breathes in deeply, letting the smell of Christmas calm him. “It couldn’t be more right. Things are somehow okay right now, Dean. The angels have been quiet, Metatron’s imprisoned, demon activity is at an all-time low for us, and we’re both in a relative form of sanity. I don’t know about you, but to me, that seems like something worth commemorating.”

 

            Dean doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he mumbles a, “Yeah, I guess.” He lies back down on the bed, resuming his fixated gaze on the ceiling, and Sam returns to the groceries with a small sigh.

 

            Maybe it’s Dean’s words, or the groceries, but Sam’s mind begins to wander, glancing over memories of Christmases past until it alights upon one, years ago, during Sam’s time at Stanford. He and Jess had attended a Christmas party via invitation by one of Jess’s frat boy friends, walking into the overwhelming smell of body odor and gingerbread schnapps. Everywhere, people bumped arms, legs, or hands, and Sam eventually tired of apologizing and simply adopted a general apologetic expression as he led Jess through the tightly-packed crowd to a side room with blissfully fewer people and soft jazz twinkling in the background, courtesy of a redhead stationed at a small keyboard in the corner.

 

            Sam and Jess sat at a long table with ten or eleven other students, chatting through the night about classes and their families and Christmas plans. All the while, Sam held Jess’s hand below the table, her fingers against his a comfort that kept him going through the long conversations and drawling monologues of a certain Brady Thompson. Sam only found the will to smile through each one because of Jess.

 

            Sam rips himself from the memory, because when he thinks about the past too much, thinks about the life he could have had, it hurts too much to bear. Instead, he sorts the rest of the food and puts it away, closing the fridge with a soft hiss of air.

 

            “You were thinking about her, weren’t you?”

 

            Sam ran a hand over his face and sat down on his own bed, feeling the slight give of the spring mattress underneath him. “How did you know?”

 

            Dean let out a small huff of air, a sort of half-laugh. “You get that look every time you think about her.” He makes some sort of unrecognizable expression on his face, but Sam knows exactly what he means; he’s seen it hundreds of times before.

 

            It’s what Sam sees when Dean talks about Cas.


	6. Six Crazy Fangirls

           After the fiasco at the gay bar, Sam decided to not take on any more cases until after the holidays. Dean suspects he just doesn’t feel like hunting, which is completely fine with him. If Sammy is happy then so is he, even if he _is_ itching to get out of their tinsel-adorned motel room and actually go _do_ something.

 

            ‘Something’ presents itself in the form of an angel in a trench coat, stumbling into their motel room with rumpled hair, a crooked tie, and desperate eyes. “We have a situation,” he gasps, leaning against the inside of the door.

 

            In an instant, Dean is on his feet and across the room. “What happened?” he asks, taking in Cas’s disheveled appearance in muted horror. “Metatron? Crowley? Demons, angels, monsters?”

 

            Cas shakes his head at each one, so Dean finally stops guessing long enough for Cas to say, “Teenage girls.”

 

            Dean frowns, pulling away slightly. “What?”

 

            Cas shuffles over to the nearest bed, sinking down on the edge and slipping out of his trench coat. “I went to Wal-Mart again to buy a gift for Sam but then I realized—“ Cas’s cheeks burn bright red— “well, I wanted that tee-shirt. The one with the angel wings.”

 

            Dean’s jaw twitches. Sam, who had moved to stand next to Dean, asks, “What tee-shirt?”

 

            Cas reaches into his trench coat pocket and pulls out a ball of crumples-up black fabric. “This one.” He tosses it to Sam, who unfurls the shirt and studies it, his mouth twitching into a smirk.

 

            “This is… interesting,” he says, giving Dean the full force of the smirk, and the older Winchester glares at Sam. “All right, so you got the shirt. Then what?”

 

            Cas shudders. “They were just… _there_ , making these high-pitched noises and flapping their hands. When I attempted to flee, they grabbed me… I had to hide in the bathroom for thirty minutes before they finally gave up.”

 

            “Why didn’t you just teleport out of there?” Dean asks, at the same time that Sam inquires, “Who _were_ they?”

 

            Cas answers Sam’s question first. “I believe they called themselves ‘fangirls’. They knew my name, and about you two, and our _lives._ They kept saying something about ‘Destiel’ and pointing at my shirt.” He squints at the two Winchesters. “I couldn’t’ just leave. I had to pay for the shirt.”

 

            “Damnit, Cas,” Dean sighs, running a hand over his jaw and pulling the corners of his mouth down. “I told you the shirt wasn’t a good idea.”

 

            Cas hangs his head. “I know.” He sounds so pitiful, and remorse washes over Dean.

 

            “Hey, I’m sorry.” Dean scuffs one shoe against the ground. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

 

            Suddenly, a loud banging rattles the motel, followed by a shout. “Castiel? Dean? Sam? Are you in there?”

 

            Cas freezes, his whole body stiffening, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. “Oh no.”

 

            More knocking, this time by multiple fists. Multiple voices shout their names, asking—no, demanding—that the door be opened. “We just want to talk!” one yells, and Cas shakes his head vehemently.

 

            “They’re lying,” he insists, and Dean finds it in him to roll his eyes.

 

            “You think? They’re crazy!”

 

            “Come on,” Cas says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Let’s leave.”

 

            “The decorations—“ Sam begins to protest, but his sentence cuts off abruptly when the motel door flies open, letting in bright light, a gust of cold winter air, and six teenage girls with bright eyes and snow-covered shoes. One girl with short black hair and triple-pierced ears charges in front of the rest of them, her mouth agape.

 

            “Sam and Dean Winchester?” she says, like she already knows it’s them but wants to confirm it anyway.

 

            Sam glances at Dean. “Sorry, no,” he lies, clearing his throat. “Who are you?”

 

            Another girl with straight brown hair and bright red lipstick rolls her eyes. “Only, like, your biggest fans. Ugh, I can’t believe you’re _real!_ Wait until the fandom hears about this!”

 

            “The _what?_ ” Dean asks, his face twisted into a grimace. Beside him, Cas tries to nonchalantly take his hand off of Dean’s arm, but a girl in the back of the pack with short brown hair notices instantly and zeros in on the motion like a vulture spotting their prey.

 

            “Oh my God, are you two _together?_ ” she says, glancing back and forth between the two of them. The rest of the girls gasp and cover their mouths, tittering excitedly to one another.

 

            “No,” Dean says forcefully—a little too forcefully, in Sam’s opinion, but for the sake of the situation, he keeps his thoughts to himself. Beside him, Cas is mute, his body rigid.

 

            “But you’re in _love_ ,” the black-haired girl states, as if it’s an obvious fact. The rest of the girls nod their assent.

 

            “No.” Cas speaks so quickly, so loudly, that Dean turns and frowns at him. “I think you should leave.”

 

            The black-haired girl looks hurt. Cas, instantly regretting taking his internal conflict out on this teenage girl who doesn’t deserve to receive it, steps towards her with a softer expression. “Let me rephrase that. I appreciate your… enthusiasm, but I would prefer it if you left.“

 

            The girl’s chin juts out, and Cas knows it’s not enough. “Fine,” she says, surprising Cas. “We’ll leave.”

 

            “Thank you—“

 

            “ _If,_ ” she continues, “you and Dean kiss.”

 

            Cas chokes on his gratitude. “What?”

 

            “Yeah,” the girl with the brown pixie cut agrees, moving to stand next to the black-haired girl. “Just one kiss. What’ll it hurt, right? Unless you’re in love, of course.”

 

            “Listen, it’s not going to happen, okay?” Dean says, his voice surprisingly calm despite the racing of his heart. _Just one kiss._ “So how about you just leave before we call the cops?”

 

            “You never call the cops.” Some girl says it; Dean doesn’t know whom.

 

            “Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything,” he retorts.

 

            Cas swallows, then turns to face Dean. “Yes, there is.” Then, before he can change his mind, he leans forward and presses his lips to Dean’s, gently and chastely, and Dean supposes the girls probably gasp or squeal or something but he’s too distracted by the soft plumpness of Cas’s lips to notice.

 

            It’s over just as soon as it began, and Cas looks down at the ground, his cheeks tinted pink. Dean’s sure his are more than just tinted; he puts his hands in his pockets so Cas won’t see them shaking, turning to look at the girls because the alternative is too awkward. “There. You got your kiss. Now scram.”

 

            The girls look hesitant, but Dean’s tired of their crap. As soon as he pulls back the hem of his shirt slightly, revealing the grip of the pistol wedged in his waistband, they vanish as quickly as they came, leaving the faint smell of vanilla bean and puddles of melted snow behind.

 

            “Where the hell were you during all of that?” Dean demands of Sam, studiously ignoring Cas. He’s afraid that if he even so much as glances at the angel, he’ll pull him in close and pick back up where they left off, and he’s not sure if that’s good or bad.

 

            Sam doesn’t even look phased. “You two had it covered.” He doesn’t mention that he felt just a little curious himself to whether or not Dean and Cas would actually do it; somehow, he thinks that that wouldn’t sit well with his brother.

 

            Dean scowls. “Bitch.”

 

            “Jerk.”

 

            Dean lets out a small laugh, rolls his eyes, and wanders away in the direction of the kitchen. Sam sees Cas’s eyes following him the entire way, and he suppresses a smile. _It won’t be long now._


	7. Seven Homoerotic Undertones

            “I sorta love you.”

 

            Dean stares at his reflection for a moment, his jaw tight, and then sighs.  He shakes his head and tries again. “I really like you. Like, a lot. Damnit.” He clears his throat and attempts a seductive smile. “Are you my appendix? Because this feeling in my stomach makes me want to take you out.”

 

            The mirror reflects Dean’s look of disgust. “Really? Cheesy pickup lines? Come on,” he scolds himself, feeling ridiculous for even having to practice this. _Just say it. ‘I love you’_. He can’t; the words keep sticking in his throat.

 

            Someone knocks on the bathroom door. “You okay in there?” Sam asks.

 

            “Yeah.” Dean shakes his head and then opens the bathroom door. “Just taking care of business.”

 

            “Spare the details.” Sam joins Dean as he passes through the kitchen and into the main room, where Cas sits on the bed, engrossed in a fat, leather-bound book. He glances up when the brothers enter, nodding at Sam politely. His eyes linger on Dean, and Dean’s skin prickles.

 

            When Dean stops next to the first bed, Sam keeps walking, grabbing the keys to the Impala off of the side table. “I’m heading out,” he says, slipping on his jacket.

 

            Suddenly afraid of being alone with Cas, Dean asks, “Why?”

 

            If Sam senses Dean’s discomfort, he doesn’t show it. “Christmas shopping,” he explains, opening the motel door. Snow is falling outside, and a few flakes begin to drift inside, melting before they land on the carpet. “It’ll probably be busy, so don’t expect me back for a few hours.”

 

            Then, before Dean can protest, Sam vanishes into the flurries, the door swinging shut behind him. A heavy silence falls over the motel, and after a moment, Dean takes a seat on the bed opposite Cas, his heart thumping uncomfortably in his chest. Not knowing what else to say, Dean asks, “What’re you reading?”

 

            Cas glances down at the book in his hands. “Your Bible. It’s very interesting.”

 

            “Oh?” Dean has never read the Bible himself. Normally, the fact doesn’t bother him; today, however, it feels like an imperfection. “Interesting how?”

 

            “Do you really want to talk about the Bible?”

 

            Cas’s directness shouldn’t surprise Dean, but it does. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and opts for honesty. “Not really.”

 

            Cas considers this for a moment. “Me either.” Then, to Dean’s surprise, he throws the book across the room. It hits the wall with a thud and slides to the ground, its thin pages bending and folding.

 

            “Isn’t that like thumbing your nose at your whole family?” Dean asks, caring less about the state of the book and more about Cas.

 

            “That book,” Cas said, “is full of lies about my family. I didn’t realize until now just how much got lost in translation.”

 

            “Careful, now. You’re going to have a mob of angry Christians after you if you keep talking like that.”

 

            Cas just shakes his head. “God did not expel Adam and Eve from the Garden; he locked them inside and used his initial failure as guidelines for a second generation of humans. Also, humans are not the likeness of God; God has no physical form. You may think of him as a thought if you must, though that is not the most accurate description. Would you like me to continue?”

 

Cas’s cheeks are an angry red; Dean stares at him, shocked at how agitated Cas is about this. “If it makes you feel better.”

 

            Cas breathes out slowly, as if trying to calm himself. “I am sorry,” he apologizes, lifting his eyes to meet Dean’s. “I suppose I just… I am not actually angry with the Bible.”

 

            “Okay,” Dean said, motioning that Cas should elaborate.

 

            Cas looks like he wants to continue, but at the last moment he pulls back. “It’s nothing you should worry about,” he says, standing up and moving to retrieve the Bible. Without thinking, Dean grabs his wrist, and Cas stops mid step.

 

            Even though Dean doesn’t want to, he swallows and says, “I think we need to talk Cas. And not about the Bible.”

 

            Cas stares at Dean’s hand like it’s a snake, and Dean lets go, feeling embarrassed at his bluntness. Of course Cas doesn’t want to talk about it; why should he? It was only a kiss.

 

            Somehow, to Dean, though, it doesn’t feel like ‘only a kiss’.

 

            “Is this about yesterday?” Cas asks, sitting on the bed next to Dean. “Because if so, I apologize for… what I did.”

 

            Dean’s stomach clenches at the way he says ‘what I did’. Like it was some sort of crime. “Don’t apologize,” he says quickly, and then covers up his eagerness by adding, “You did what you had to in order to get rid of those girls.”

 

            Cas shakes his head. “We could have come up with another way. I just…”

 

            Dean feels his stomach drop. Cas is looking down at his hands, clenched into fists on his lap, and worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Dean’s never seen him so nervous, not even with Lucifer or Metatron. “I can’t lie to you,” Cas blurts. “I wanted to kiss you.”

 

            Dean can’t breathe. Cas prattles on like the adorable idiot he is, babbling apologies and explanations, but Dean hears none of it through the rushing in his ears. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ The words echo around inside him, pushing against his tongue. He needs to say them. He needs Cas to hear them.

 

            “Cas—“

 

            “Please don’t hate me,” Cas says in a small voice, and he looks so pitiful it breaks Dean’s heart.

 

            “You idiot,” Dean says, and then the words finally come. “I love you.”

 

            Cas looks at Dean like he’s just told him that the sky is green. “You do?”

 

            It hurts Dean to think that Cas even has to ask. “Of course.” He gives Cas a small smile. “Merry Christmas.”

 

            The joy on Cas’s face makes Dean want to melt. “Merry Christmas.”

 

            Dean leans in, pausing just before their lips touch. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he breathes. “Last chance to turn back.”

 

            “There is nothing to go back to.” Cas closes the space, kissing Dean slowly and gently. After a moment, he pulls back slightly and smiles. “I love you as well.”

 

            “Mhm,” Dean mumbles, resting his forehead against Cas’s. “We should have done this a long time ago.”

 

            Cas murmurs his assent, finding Dean’s hand with his own and twining their fingers. They shift so they’re lying side-by-side on the bed, their heads propped up on pillows, their outer thighs brushing against one another. Through each point of contact, bolts of electricity shoot, making Dean’s skin tingle. He lets out a contented sigh, rubbing his thumb over Cas’s knuckles. “Why didn’t we?” he muses, almost to himself, but Cas offers an answer.

 

            “Because we were too afraid of losing everything. We were too afraid of losing each other.” The words would sound cynical, but Cas says them so matter-of-factly that they simply come across as the truth, and Dean accepts them. However, he can’t help the little voice inside his head that reminds him, _We could still lose everything._

 

            Looking at Cas, with his dark rumpled hair and deep blue eyes, Dean squelches the voice. _Not today,_ he decides, squeezing Cas’s hand. Today, it’s just him and Cas.

 

            The future can wait.


	8. Eight Shotguns Blasting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is different than the pictures because I didn't know what to do for eight grave desecrations. I got this one from a video on youtube.

          Sam pulls an Under Armour sweatshirt off of the rack, holding it out in front of him. “Nice,” he mutters to himself. He checks the price, and his admiration falters. “Just kidding.” He slips it back among the others, shaking his head, and moves out of the clothing section of Gander Mountain, his cart squeaking slightly.

 

            Sam doesn’t really need to go Christmas shopping. He has a few items picked out for Dean and Cas sitting in his cart on Amazon, only a click away from 3-day delivery. However, if he hadn’t left the house, Dean and Cas would have exploded from the sexual tension between them, and Sam is tired of eye-sex.

 

            An employee decked out in atrocious amounts of camouflage asks Sam if he needs any assistance. Sam politely declines his offer, but despite this, the employee still gives Sam a run-down of the store’s sales. “We have buy one get one 50 percent off throughout the whole store, plus an extra 10 dollars off if you spend 100 dollars or more. Also, our entire gunstock is marked down by a minimum of 25 percent, today only.” The employee flashes Sam a smile. “Give them the gift of protection, right?”

 

            Sam forces a smile, excusing himself and steering away from the employee. It’s not until a couple of minutes later that Sam finally thinks of the perfect gift for Cas, a smile rising to his lips at the idea.

 

            The guns practically shine in the glass display case, and Sam stares at them with open admiration. The woman behind the counter finishes up with her customer and then leans on the case next to Sam, giving him a pink-lipped smile. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

 

            Sam nods his agreement. “Do you have any shotguns in stock?”

 

            The woman—Nadia, as her nametag states—shoots Sam an incredulous look. “That’s like asking an ice cream parlor if they have any ice cream cones in stock.” She pushes off of the counter. “Follow me.”

 

            Abandoning his cart—it’s empty anyway—Sam follows Nadia to the far wall, where shot guns sit lined up in rows of at least thirty. Nadia spreads her hands out wide. “Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

 

            Sam considers this for a moment. “Something romantic.”

 

            “Ah.” Nadia’s voice loses some of its cheer. “Who’s the girl?”

 

            “Oh, it’s not for a girlfriend,” Sam says quickly.

 

            Nadia raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend?”

 

            “Not mine. My brother’s.”

 

            Nadia looks like she wants to ask more, but at the last moment, she sighs and shakes her head. “I recommend this one,” she says, pulling a brown and silver shotgun from its holder. “The Winchester SXP. It’s lightweight but still packs quite a punch. Plus, the silver accents scream ‘romantic’.”

 

            Sam shrugs. “Awesome. I’ll take it.”

 

            Nadia brings the gun behind the counter, and as Sam returns to his cart, he has a brilliant idea. “Can I get something engraved on the side?” he asks.

 

            Nadia purses her lips, inspecting the shotgun. “I suppose. It’s going to cost you.”

 

            “That’s fine.” Sam digs out his wallet. _More expensive than the sweatshirt_ , a voice in the back of his head mocks, but he ignores it. “How much?”

 

            “Well,” Nadia muses, tapping a few numbers into her register, “the gun itself is 300 dollars with the discount. The engraving price depends on what you want engraved.”

 

            “Just the word ‘Dean’.”

 

            “Spelt D-E-A-N?”

 

            “Yup.”

 

            Nadia bites her lip as she writes down the name, and then she calls over another employee and sends the gun back to be engraved. “That’ll come out to only five dollars, so your total will be 305 dollars, plus tax.”

 

            After they run through ID check and registration, Sam swipes his credit card. The machine beeps, and Nadia puts the transaction through with a few clicks. “Email?”

 

            “[Winchester2@gmail.com.](mailto:Winchester2@gmail.com.)”

 

            “Okay,” Nadia says, typing it into the computer. “Phone number?”

 

            “666-666-6666.”

 

            Nadia chuckles. “That’s unfortunate.” She scrawls the number on a piece of paper, tucking it into her pocket.

 

            “What are you doing?”

 

            Nadia gives Sam a toothy grin. “How else can I call you?”

 

            Sam’s stomach twists. Sure, she’s pretty—gorgeous, actually, with honey-blonde hair and an hourglass figure that most girls would kill for—but somehow, it doesn’t feel right. “Look, Nadia,” he tries, but she’s already seen his hesitation and is shaking her head, taking the paper out of her pocket and pushing it towards him.

 

            “I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I didn’t mean to be so forward.”

 

            _Nice too, and funny._ Sam doesn’t know what’s wrong with him; normally, he’d be all over a girl like Nadia. “No, I’m sorry,” he says, feeling absolutely horrible. “You’re very pretty, but—“

 

            “—But you already have somebody,” Nadia finishes for him, letting out a small laugh. “Of course. The cute ones are always taken.”

 

            Sam frowns. “I don’t… what are you talking about?”

 

            “You’re in love!” Nadia waves a hand at his face. “I can see it. She’s a very lucky girl.” Then, she shrugs. “Or guy. Whatever trips your trigger.” She gives Sam a pat on the upper arm, smiling warmly at him. “If it doesn’t work out, you know where to find me.” Then, before Sam can protest, she moves on to the next customer, leaving Sam with a crumpled piece of paper and a confused expression.

 

            An employee brings Sam the shotgun, pointing out the new engraving. As soon as Sam confirms that it’s correct, he leaves, and Sam exits the store, Nadia’s words still echoing in his mind.

 

            _You’re in love. I can see it_. Sam sits in the Impala, listening to one of Dean’s classic rock CDs and staring into space.

 

            Who could he possibly be in love with? Jess? No, that couldn’t be. Despite having planned on marrying her, even going so far as to shop for engagement rings, Sam had long since come to terms with her death. Even the other day when he’d thought of her again, it was simply a memory, a part of the past that he could never get back, and he’d accepted that.

 

            And then Sam realizes, and the thought scares him so much that he starts the car and drives away quickly, as if trying to leave that part of him behind. But, no matter how fast he drives, he cannot shake it.

 

            Hands shaking, Sam turns up the music, and Metallica fills the car, the bass making his teeth rattle. He clenches his jaw until it hurts.

 

            Unlike Jess, this is one death he cannot let go.


	9. Nine Books of Lore

        “Ugh, all this shopping is making me nauseous,” Dean complains, grabbing a random book off the shelf and glancing at the back out of habit. “Besides, all these books are about girls falling in love with vampires, which _also_ makes me nauseous.”

 

            Cas peers over Dean’s shoulder, his breath tickling Dean’s ear. “As soon as we find a gift for Sam, we can leave.”

 

            “We?” Dean chuckles, slipping the book back onto the shelf. “You are not mooching off of my gift.”

 

            Cas pouts. “Why not?”

 

            “Because I said so.” Dean moves out from between Cas and the bookshelves and continues moving through the store. He sees a sign marked ‘Mythology’ and heads towards it.

 

            “Why are we going over here?” Cas asks, catching up to Dean. Their hands brush, and Dean captures Cas’s fingers with his own.

 

            “Because the kind of books I’m looking for,” Dean explains with a sigh, “the rest of the world thinks are works of fiction.”

 

            “Ignorance is a blessing,” Cas says. “It keeps the world sane.”

 

            Dean doesn’t argue. Instead, he turns in between two bookshelves and starts scanning the bindings. Most of the books sound absolutely ridiculous. “’Monsters and Ghosts: How to Communicate’?” Dean reads in disgust. “’Zombies Have Feelings Too’? Seriously?” He picks a book at random and flips to the first page. “’Chapter One: Unwrapping the History Behind Mummies’. Mummies don’t exist, Cas!”

 

            “There was a time when you didn’t think angels existed.”

 

            Dean doesn’t have a good comeback; he slides the mummy book back onto the shelf and sighs heavily. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ll just have to start believing in dead bodies wrapped in toilet paper shuffling around and groaning.”

 

            “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

            “Oh, honey, you haven’t seen me when I’m being ridiculous.”

 

            Cas considers the pet name for a moment. “Perhaps stick with ‘Cas’.”

 

            “Sweetheart?”

 

            “No.”

 

            “Sugar?”

 

            “No, Dean.”

 

            “Babe?”

 

            “Absolutely not.”

 

            “Angel.”

 

            Cas pulls Dean to a halt in the middle of the aisle. Dean glances at him inquisitively and finds Cas staring at him, a small smile on his face. “I can tolerate that.”

 

            Because it’s just after noon on a Thursday, the used bookstore is practically empty; therefore, Dean finds it perfectly justifiable when he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Cas’s lips. “Angel,” he murmurs, and Cas shivers. “I like ‘angel’.”

 

            Dean wants to push Cas against a bookshelf and kiss him into oblivion, but then Cas says, “Look at this,” and pushes past Dean, reaching for a book on the shelf behind him. He pulls down a large, leather-bound volume, with yellowing pages and a creased binding. On the front in scrawling gold letters are the words ‘On the Passages Between Worlds’ with the subheading ‘Traveling Through the Realms With Ease’. “I don’t think there is anything like this in the bunker.”

 

            Dean takes the book from Cas, flipping it open to the middle. Long lines of cursive inscribed with dark black ink stare back at him from the left page, and on the right page, an expansive diagram of Hell. Dean whistles. “Look at that.”

 

            “That is startlingly accurate.” Cas takes the book from Dean’s hands, staring at the diagram with narrowed eyes. “How could a human know all of this?”

 

            “We don’t ask,” Dean says, taking the book back from Cas and snapping it closed; it leaves behind the smell of old, musty paper and mothballs. “We buy.”

 

            “I have no money, Dean.”

 

            “Good.” Dean moves towards the checkout area. “Because this is _my_ gift.”

 

            Cas looks at Dean with eyes so wide, it’s like the entire ocean is mirrored in his gaze. “Please?”

 

            Dean feels his resolve wavering. “You’re shortchanging Sam…”

 

            Cas, impossibly, amplifies his puppy-dog eyes. “Dean…”

 

            _Snap_.

 

            Cas wraps the book, and Dean sets it under the tree, reading the to/from tag with tired resignation.

           

            To: Sam

 

            From: Dean and Cas

           

            But then Dean sees Cas’s smile, feels Cas’s lips on his, and it’s worth it.

 


	10. Ten Character Deaths

           It’s been two days since Sam bought the shotgun, but he still can’t shake the memories Nadia dragged back. They resurface in his dreams, waking him up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with the sheets tangled around his feet. They haunt him during the day to the point where Cas asked him once if he was sick. “I can heal you,” he offered, to which Sam replied that he was fine. “Just tired.”

 

            Now, however, Dean and Cas had ventured out shopping, and without anyone to pretend for, Sam struggles to find the will to keep himself together. He sits on his bed facing the Christmas tree, seeing his dull expression in one of the red glass bulbs, and then he sees someone else—someone with honey-brown hair and mischievous green eyes and a lollipop, the stick poking out between his lips…

 

            It hurts too much, so Sam looks away, blinking the tears out of the corners of his eyes. It’s been years. He should be done mourning, but each memory is like a fresh wound, a new knife twisting in Sam’s gut.

 

            He wishes he could forget. At least then it wouldn’t hurt so much.

 

            Sam lays down, staring at the ceiling listless, and sighs. “Hey,” he says, his words meeting empty air. “It’s me again. I know you’re… I know you’re not going to hear this, but I need to say it. I can’t let go of you. I just…”

 

            A tear dribbles down Sam’s cheek, and he lets it; sometimes, pain demands to be felt. “I didn’t know until you were gone just how much I cared about you. As soon as I looked and found that part of me empty, I realized just how much of myself I gave to you, without even knowing it. Now you’re dead.” Sam chokes on the word. “You’re dead, and for years, I thought I could handle it. I _did_ handle it. I can’t pretend anymore.” He closes his eyes, wet eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. “I need you, Gabriel. You can’t be dead.”

 

            He cuts off the prayer with a not-so-manly sob. Who’s to say _he_ has to be the strong one all the time? Why does _he_ have to lose everything, while others have all they need and want and more? He and Dean have lost everybody they care about: their parents, Bobby, Jess, Kevin, Jo, Ellen… and Gabriel.

 

            _No_. It’s Christmas; Sam will not sit around and feel sorry for himself on _Christmas._ He opens his eyes and sits up, prepared to decorate the motel some more to keep his mind off of things, but then he freezes, his breath catching.

 

            “That was sweet, Sam. Really, I’m touched.”

 

            It’s like the world is spinning; all the Christmas lights blur together into a mess of red and green, and Sam still can’t breathe. All he can concentrate on is _him_ , leaning against the wall like nothing’s wrong, like nothing’s changed, peeling back the wrapper of a marshmallow Santa and raising his eyebrows at Sam. “Moose got your tongue?”

 

            Despite everything, Sam backs away from him, hands scrambling for purchase on the comforter. “It can’t be you. You- you’re dead.” It’s not fair that Sam’s heart is racing double time, hoping all on its own that it’s true. _Gabriel_. He wants it to be him so badly, but too much time had passed.

 

            “ _Was_ dead.” Gabriel throws his wrapper on the ground and takes a huge bite of the Santa. With a mouth full of marshmallow, he states, “You Winchesters should know by now that ‘dead’ doesn’t usually actually mean ‘dead’. How many times have the two of you died? I know I killed your brother a hundred or so times myself.” He gives Sam a cheeky grin, and it’s so _Gabriel_ Sam feels like he might burst.

 

            “How?” Sam manages.

 

            Gabriel finishes the Santa, waving his hands in a ridiculous gesture. “Gates to Heaven open, and poof! Suddenly, I’m back in this old meatsuit in the middle of some pasture. I probably still smell like manure.” He sniffs his shoulder with a grimace.

 

            Sam slips his hand in the back of his jeans, feeling the cold press of the silver knife there. Then, in one smooth motion, he whips the knife at Gabriel’s chest; it sinks in to the hilt, and Gabriel stares at it for a moment before pulling it out, letting it clatter to the ground. “Come on, Sam. If you wanted to kill me, that’s the wrong blade.”

 

            Sam stands, surprised that his knees are strong enough to keep him up. “I don’t want to kill you.” Then, surprising both himself and Gabriel, he wraps Gabriel in a massive hug, enveloping the smaller man with his tight embrace. “I just had to make sure.”

 

            “Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel says, tapping Sam on the back. “I love you too.”

 

            Sam pulls back like he’s been electrocuted. “What?”

 

            “Oh, come on, Sammy. Everybody knows ‘I need you’ is Winchester for ‘I love you. Dean’s pulled that one with Cas thousands of times.” Gabriel gives Sam a bitchface that rivals the younger Winchester’s. “You thought I went through all the trouble to find you two just to pop in and say ‘hi’?”

 

            Sam doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he just shakes his head. “How long?”

 

            “Pfft, I don’t know. You think I woke up one day and said to myself, ‘You know what would be great? Sleeping with Sam Winchester.’? Hells no.”

 

            “Did you get my other prayers?” Sam’s not sure if he wants a yes or a no.

 

            “I just told you I’m gay for you and you want to talk about _praying?_ ” Gabriel moves closer to Sam, a small smirk on his face.

 

            Sam’s face burns hot. “Not really, but I do have questions—“

 

            “Shut up.” Then, Gabriel’s lips find Sam’s, and he forgets every one of his inquiries.

 

            Gabriel tastes like chocolate and marshmallow, and his kiss feels just as good as Sam imagined, if not infinitely better. Sam wants to take it slow; he’s not cautious normally, but he wants to be with Gabriel. However, Gabriel has no such reservations; he pushes Sam roughly backward against the wall, pinning him there with his body and running his hands through Sam’s hair. “God, this _hair,_ ” Gabriel moans, pulling it. “What shampoo do you use?” Gabriel’s lips, taking over Sam’s hungrily, stifle Sam’s response.

 

            Maybe it’s minutes later, maybe hours, when Sam hears the turning of a doorknob. He jerks back, not because he’s afraid of discovery—somehow, he doesn’t think his brother will care about his homosexuality—but because Gabriel just _vanishes_ , giving Sam a quick wink before disappearing with a flutter of wings. A split second later, the motel door whips open, and Dean and Cas stumble inside, a paper bag labeled ‘Half-Price Books’ gripped in Dean’s hand. “Why the _hell_ would anybody actually _live_ here?” Dean complains, his teeth chattering.

 

            Sam, stunned, leans against the wall, his cheeks flushed. It takes Dean a moment to notice Sam’s position, and he set the bag on his bed with a frown. “What’s with the sex hair?” Then, a grin splits his face wide. “Do you have a _girl_ here?”

 

            “No—“ Sam begins, trying to figure out how he’s going to explain Gabriel, but Dean cuts him off.

 

            “No, Sam, really, it’s fine. I’m happy for you.” Cas moves to stand by Dean’s side, and Sam sees their fingers twitch towards one another. “It’s about damn time you found somebody for yourself.”

 

            Sam’s protests die on his lips. Dean looks so happy for him; he doesn’t have the heart to correct him, especially to mention a previously dead, now-absent angel. Instead, Sam smiles at Dean and Cas. “You too.”

 

            Dean’s grin is completely worth the lie.


	11. Eleven Rabid Hellhounds

           “You’re going _where_ for Christmas?”

 

            Lilith tries not to shrink back under Crowley’s glare. “I’m sorry boss, but he insisted.”

 

            Crowley blows out a breath. “I can’t believe it. The _Winchesters,_ inviting three of Hell’s most heinous to a bloody _party!_ ” He leans back in his throne. “And they forgot the king. How inconsiderate.” He glances at Lilith, who has stood mutely through Crowley’s entire musings. “Get the hounds. We’ll have to pay Moose and Squirrel a little visit.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean wakes in the middle of the night, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Beside him, Cas opens his eyes, glancing at Dean with a creased forehead. “What’s wrong?”

 

            “I don’t know.” Dean stands, slipping his pistol out from under his pillow and clicking off the safety. “I’ve just got a bad feeling, that’s all.”

 

            Another boyfriend might coax Dean back into bed, assuring him that nothing is there. Cas, however, stands and moves by Dean’s side. “Should we wake Sam?”

 

            Dean glances over at his unconscious brother, shaking his head. “If there really _is_ something, I’m sure he’ll wake himself.”

 

            Cas nods; Dean moves to check all the windows and doors, peering outside into the parking lot. “I don’t see anything.”

 

            Cas grins. “Maybe it’s Santa,” he jokes.

 

Then, the door blasts inwards, slamming into Dean’s bed and sending Dean flying into the wall, and Cas’s smile drops instantly. “Dean!” Cas cries, rushing towards him. “Dean, are you okay?”

 

            Dean coughs and stumbles to his feet. “What the hell?”

 

            “ _King_ of Hell, actually.”

 

            Dean, Cas, and a now-awake Sam watch as Crowley saunters into the motel room, his hands in his suit pockets. “Pardon my intrusion, but I believe that you have an invitation to give me?”

 

            Sam, shaking off his brief disorientation, asks, “What invitation?”

 

            “To the Winchester Christmas party! It seems that you forgot to invite me.” The way Crowley says it with a dangerous glint in his eyes reveals the threat behind his polite words.

 

            Dean glances at Sam, who looks stunned. “No offense, Crowley, but why would I invite you? You gave my brother the Mark of Cain and took him on a demonic road trip!”

 

            “Technically, Dean _chose_ both of those things. Besides, I returned him in one piece.” Crowley waves a hand at Dean, who scowls in return.

 

            “The answer is no.” Sam’s face hardens, his chin jutting out in defiance. “Now how about you leave us alone?”

 

            Crowley sighs, examining his fingernails. “Typical Winchester. After all I’ve done for you.” He snaps his fingers; from behind him, a low growl begins. “I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

           

            Dean’s heart stops; the growl fills his ears, reverberating down to his bones, and his hands begin to shake. He can feel it again; the claws ripping through fabric and skin, cutting his flesh to ribbons, blood gurgling up between his lips, Sam’s cries of anguish. He can see Jo and Ellen, blood covering Jo’s stomach, bubbling up past her faint, weak smile. He remembers the trials, Sam slicing his knife through jet-black fur, tar-like gunk covering him from head to toe.

 

            “Hellhounds,” Cas gasps, and it’s like Dean’s living the nightmare all over again.

 

            “On my command, she’ll rip you to shreds,” Crowley says, his tone light and threatening all at once. “Of course, invite me to your party and all of this will be settled.”

 

            “Are you insane?” Sam shouts, his knife clenched in front of him. “Call them off!”

 

            Crowley rolls his eyes. “Five… four… three…”

 

            “Stop!” Dean howls, terror seizing him with icy cold hands, but it’s like Crowley can’t hear him.

 

            “Two… one…”

 

            “Crowley!” Maybe it’s Sam, maybe Cas, maybe Dean; Dean can’t tell over the pounding of his heart.

 

            “Time’s up, boys.”

 

            “Fine!” Sam holds his hands out in a gesture of peace. “You can come to our party.”

 

            Crowley clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Oh, I will. Consider this a gift in advance. Sic ‘em, girl!”

 

            The growl morphs into an enormous bark, and Dean hears paws against the carpet. Dean swears and looks for Crowley, but he’s vanished, leaving behind the rotten stink of sulfur.

 

            “Behind you!” Cas cries, and Dean spins, slashing blindly at the air. There’s a small yelp, but then the growling starts again, louder than before.

 

            “Can you see it?” Dean demands, backing up against the wall.

 

            “Yes.”

 

            “Then kill it!” Sam shouts from across the room, tossing Cas an angel blade. Cas catches it midair.

 

            Suddenly, Dean feels teeth sink into his leg, and something drags him to the ground. He lets out a cry of pain, reaching out with his knife, but before the hellhound can get past his leg, Cas lunges forward and drives his knife downwards.

 

            A howl rips through the night, rattling Dean’s teeth and making his ears ring. Cas lets go of the blade, watching in horror as the hellhound becomes visible for a moment, its massive jaw still locked tightly around Dean’s calf. Then, it collapses, letting out one last high-pitched whine before disintegrating, leaving a small patch of black, tar-like liquid behind.

 

            Dean grits his teeth, leaning forward and pressing his palm to his injured leg. Sam offers to get the first aid kit, but Cas shakes his head. “There’s no need.” He places his hand on Dean’s leg, making Dean wince, and closes his eyes. There’s a flash of bright yellow-orange light, and when Cas removes his hand, Dean’s skin is bloody but unmarked. He flexes his leg a few times before clambering to his feet with the help of Cas.

 

            Sam glances around the motel room, a disheartened look on his face. “My decorations. My _tree._ ”

 

            Dean looks at Cas, rolling his eyes. “Of course, _that’s_ what he’s worried about.”

 

            “I wouldn’t mock me. Your present was under that tree.”

 

            Dean pauses. “We need to clean this up right away.”

 

            “I can do that as well.” One snap of Cas’s fingers and the motel room is spotless, ornaments gleaming, every tinsel strand perfectly hung.

 

            Sam whistles. “Dean, I think I love your boyfriend.”

 

            Cas’s cheeks flare red, but Dean just grins cheekily. “Yeah, me too.”


	12. Twelve Cliffhangers

           “Christmas Eve is like foreplay, Cas.”

 

            Cas looks up from the gift he holds, pausing mid-shake. “What?”

 

            Dean smirks. “Just get right to it, right?”

 

            “I do not see the connection.” Cas resumes shaking his gift, pressing his ear to the box. “I believe that this is some sort of stick.”

 

            “Hey,” Sam calls from across the room, looking up from his computer. “Leave it alone.”

 

            Cas pouts and sets the gift back under the tree. “Now I understand. I had no idea that my half-brother’s birthday would hold such excitement.”

 

            Sam shakes his head and pulls up a new search window. Dean and Cas’s voices melt into the background as he researches cranberry dishes, searching fruitlessly for an easy recipe.

 

            Just as he clicks on a link for Orange Cranberry Fluff, his screen crackles and goes dark. Sam frowns and presses a few keys, to no avail. “What the heck…?”

 

            “Sam.” The voice is garbled, and Sam glances around the room. Dean and Cas have disappeared, and he can’t see anybody else. Confused, he looks back at his screen, which is crackling again. Through the static, an image begins to form: a face, emerging in fragments. “Sam, can you hear me?”

 

            Then, Sam recognizes the voice, and his breath catches. “Gabriel. What’s going on? Where have you been?”

 

            The disturbance clears and Gabriel’s face materializes fully, his eyes wide and scared. Sam finds himself seized with terror; Gabriel’s never scared, not like this. “I wanted to come back, Sam, but I can’t.”

 

            “I don’t understand.” Sam’s hands shake; he closes them around the sides of the computer, his knuckles white. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

 

            Gabriel glances behind him quickly. “They found me, and they’re going to kill me for deceiving them. I can’t let them kill you, too.”

 

            “ _Who_ found you?”

 

            Gabriel opens his mouth to respond, but then his face disappears, the image on the screen spinning and coming to rest on a sideways view of another motel room. A dark-skinned woman has Gabriel’s hands held tightly behind his back, her mouth next to his ear, whispering something. Gabriel struggles against her grip, but then a man steps into view, pressing a silver angel blade to Gabriel’s throat. Sam stifles a cry with his hand, not wanting to watch but not able to tear his eyes away from the screen.

 

“Go to Hell,” Gabriel spits. “Or wherever it is you Pagans go.”

 

            “And where is it that an archangel goes when he dies?” the woman asks, her black hair waterfalling over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Let’s kill you and see.”

 

            Gabriel’s eyes flash over to the computer screen, just for a moment, and it feels like a silent goodbye. “Kali, you don’t have to do this.”

 

            _Kali._ Sam’s brought back years to a fancy hotel straight from the depths of Hell and an Apocalypse looming on the horizon. They—the Pagans—had known Gabriel as Loki until Kali had unearthed his connection to Heaven and attempted to kill him. And then Lucifer had _actually_ killed him.

 

            “Of course I do,” Kali purrs, pressing a soft kiss to Gabriel’s neck. Sam wants to strangle her; his nails dig into his palms. “Goodbye, Gabriel.”

 

            Then, the man pulls back the blade and, in one smooth motion, drives it into Gabriel’s chest.

 

            “No!” Sam cries, but there’s nothing he can do but watch as blue light spills out of Gabriel’s chest, spiderwebbing through his whole body. His mouth opens in a silent scream, and then Kali releases him and he falls limply to the ground, the light within him sputtering and dying. His head lolls to the side, blank eyes turning to face Sam, and Sam can’t stand it; with a howl of anguish, he throws his computer at the wall. Then, he leans his head back against the headboard, buries his face in his hands, and screams.

 

* * *

 

 

            “I thought that we said no more Christmas shopping,” Dean protests as Cas turns the Impala into the parking lot of the mall. After much begging and pleading, Dean finally relented and let Cas drive his baby; now, he regrets his decision greatly.

 

            “We are not Christmas shopping.”

 

Cas pulls off into one of the small businesses bordering the mall parking lot, parking the Impala next to a large gray truck with a husky in the back. It stares at Dean with soulful eyes, and Dean looks at it incredulously for a moment before craning his neck to see the building behind them. “Why do we need to go to a bank?”

 

            Cas swings open the Impala door, narrowly missing the truck; Dean winces. “I have to make a deposit.”

 

            Dean raises an eyebrow, but he climbs out of the car and follows Cas into the squat brick building. “Where did you get the money?” he asks as Cas walks up to a teller, fishing an envelope out of the pocket of his trench coat.

 

            “I’ve been saving it,” Cas says cryptically, smiling at the bank teller. “Hello.”

 

            “Hello,” she replies, giving Cas a slightly-too-happy smile, and Dean clears his throat loudly, taking a step closer to Cas. She glances between the two of them, and her expression falls flat. “How can I help you?” she asks, sounding tired.

 

            “I’d like to make a deposit.” Cas pushes the envelope towards her.

 

            The bank teller sighs. “What’s your account number?”

 

            Cas frowns. “I need an account?”

 

            “Of course you do.” The bank teller gives Cas a narrow-eyed look. “Would you like to open an account?”

 

            “Yes—“

 

            “Everybody freeze!”

 

            Dean automatically turns, his hand going towards the gun wedged in the back of his pants. In the middle of the bank stands a man wearing a dark gray hoodie and dark blue jeans, waving a large shotgun around with shaking hands. “Everybody _freeze!_ ” he repeats, and Dean’s grip on his pistol tightens. “Get down on the ground!”

 

            Terrified, the bank tellers move out from behind the counter and slide down in front of it, their hands held above their heads. The few customers join them, too scared to speak or do anything else but sink to the floor, eyes wide and lips quivering. Cas puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder and whispers in his ear, “We have to leave.”

 

            The man, hearing Cas’s words, whips towards them. “Shut up!” he exclaims, his finger itching towards the trigger. “Sit down and put your hands where I can see them!”

 

            In one smooth motion, Dean whips out his pistol and points it at the man. “Not so fast,” he says, his voice steady.

 

            “Dean, what are you doing?” Cas asks, his grip on Dean’s shoulder tightening, but Dean ignores him.

 

            “Put down the gun,” Dean commands, taking a step closer to the man. The man hoists his gun up higher, his finger tight against the trigger. “Please. Nobody wants this to end badly, so just _put the gun down_.”

 

            “Why don’t you put your gun down and _stop talking?_ ” The man’s eyes, wide and skittish, should scare Dean, but he can’t just _leave_ , not with all these innocent people held at gunpoint.

 

            “We can talk this out,” Dean continues, taking another step closer to the man. If he can just get close enough, he can knock the man’s gun out of his hands and restrain him until the police arrive. “There’s no need for anyone to get _shot._ ”

 

            “Don’t come any closer!” the man warns. Then, his eyes lock on something behind Dean. “I’ll shoot him!”

 

            Dean doesn’t have to look to know who _him_ is. “You really don’t want to do that.”

 

            “Yeah? Why not?” The man points his gun over Dean’s shoulder.

 

            “Because I am an angel and therefore am immune to any form of weapon other than a celestial blade,” Cas informs him.

 

            The man laughs, a harsh, grating, nervous sound. “You’re crazy.” He swings his gun back around to face Dean anyway, and this time, his hands don’t shake. “One more step and I’ll shoot you.”

 

            _One more step._ That’s all Dean needs to get close enough to knock the gun out of the man’s hands. So, he holds his hands up in a peace gesture, his gun pointed at the ceiling, and says, “Okay, okay. I understand.”

 

            The man pauses for a moment. “Drop your gun.”

 

            Dean nods, bending down without taking his eyes off of the man, and sets his gun on the floor. “Okay.” He straightens, his hands empty and held out to the sides.

 

            “Kick it towards me.”

 

            Dean does so. The man takes the pistol with his foot and slides it across the floor, where it fetches up against one glass door. “Now get over by the others.”

 

            Dean can feel Cas’s eyes on the back of his neck. “Listen, man, can’t we just talk about this?”

 

            “ _Get by the others!_ ”

 

            “Dean—“ Cas warns, but his warning is cut off when the man suddenly fires, the bullet slamming into Cas’s chest and sending him stumbling backwards a step.

 

Screams erupt from the others, quickly silenced when the man waves his gun at them and yells, “Quiet!”

 

            Cas glances down at his chest, staring at the small hole in his dress shirt where the bullet ripped through, and then looks at the man. “I told you it would not work.”

 

            The man stares at Cas with wide eyes. “What the hell…?”

 

            Cas takes a step towards the man, and the man shoots him again and again, each shot making the rest of the people gasp, and each time the bullets have no effect on Cas. “Please stop,” Cas says, holding his hand out. Dean can see him building up something inside of him; his eyes begin to glow. “Put the weapon down and leave.”

 

            _Bang._

 

            Cas jerks to a halt, the light in his eyes sputtering out. For a moment, Dean thinks that somehow, the man’s actually _shot_ Cas, and his heart falls down to the soles of his feet; but then, he feels the pain, shooting through his body and making his vision fuzzy. “Cas?” he croaks, and then he’s falling, tumbling to the ground, and Cas is catching him, saying his name over and over again, and the world is fading quickly, and all Dean can think is _I love you_ , but before he can say it, his vision goes black and he loses himself to the darkness.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh imagine if you'd had to wait a night for this chapter like people did when I was writing this real time.

           Cas sits next to a hospital bed, his eyes glassy, his hands limp on his knees. Sam is pacing in the hallway, running his hands over and over through his hair, ignoring the sympathetic looks of doctors and nurses as they pass. And Dean… Dean’s breathing echoes in Cas’s ears, a sure sign of life, but to Cas, it feels like he’s dead.

 

            “I couldn’t heal you, Dean,” Cas chokes out. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. This is all my fault.”

 

            The only response Cas gets is the beeping of the machines, keeping time with Dean’s weak heartbeat.

 

            Cas hangs his head. “You have to wake up,” he whispers, his voice small and meek. “Please. I… I need you, Dean. I _love_ you.”

 

            He doesn’t know how much later it is when a nurse enters the room, a clipboard in her hand. She informs him with concerned eyes that if Dean doesn’t wake in the next 24 hours, then he most likely won’t wake at all. “I’m sorry,” she adds at the end, like the words will somehow make the news better, placing a hand on Castiel’s shoulder briefly before leaving the hospital room.

 

            Sam comes in a moment later, swinging the door shut gently behind him. He pulls up a chair next to Cas, sitting down heavily. When Cas looks at him, it’s like looking in a mirror; Sam’s eyes are hollow and empty with dark black bags underneath them, like the life’s been sucked out of him. Cas imagines he looks the same.

 

            The day drags on, counting down the hours to Christmas; the sun sets and lights turn on throughout the city, yellow and red and green. Another nurse checks in on Dean, setting a candy cane next to his bedside and offering some to Cas and Sam; they both decline. Somehow, the holidays don’t seem to matter anymore.

 

            Cas expects someone to expel them from the hospital as the day turns to night, but no one comes, so as Sam dozes, his head in his hands, Cas moves to sit on Dean’s bed, placing his hand over Dean’s. Then, as the clock strikes midnight, Cas leans down and presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead, a tear dripping down his cheek and falling onto Dean’s skin. “Merry Christmas, Dean,” he says, his lips trembling.

 

            Sam jerks awake around four o’clock in the morning. “Gabriel?” he gasps, his eyes flashing.

 

            Cas looks away from Dean for a moment. “What?”

 

            Sam seems to register everything all at once, and he stumbles to his feet. “I’ll be right back.” He rushes out of the hospital room, leaving Cas alone with Dean, and finds his way to the bathroom, where he grips the edges of one of the sinks tightly and lets his tears drip into the basin. First Gabriel, now Dean… everything is spinning out of control, and all Sam can do is sit here and mourn.

 

            “Damn it!” he screams, slamming a hand on the mirror. A small crack spiderwebs across the glass, fracturing Sam’s reflection into a thousand little fragments. He punches the mirror again, and a large chunk of glass dislodges in his hand. Blood begins to gush from the cut, and Sam stares at the wound blankly, red filling his vision. He can feel himself falling apart, and a small part of himself begs him to pull himself back together; that part is suffocated by the wave of sorrow that floods him, drowning him and pushing him down further and further.

 

            “Oh my God,” a tinny voice says, and then hands are on Sam’s shoulders, pulling him away from the sink. A portly man in an ugly Christmas sweater turns Sam towards him, staring at Sam with wide green eyes. “Oh my God. You need a doctor or… something.” He guides Sam quickly out of the bathroom, shouting, “We need a doctor! Somebody!”

 

            “No,” Sam tries to protest, shrugging away from the stranger’s grip, but then a doctor rushes over and takes Sam’s hand in his. Saying words of consolation that Sam doesn’t need, he gently wiggles the piece of glass out of Sam’s hand, and then the blood flows more steadily, coating the doctor’s gloved hands with bright scarlet fluid. The doctor tells a nurse to get him some bandages, guiding Sam out of the hallway and into an empty room. While he bustles around the room, pulling antiseptic out of a cabinet, he gently asks Sam what happened. Sam says nothing; he doesn’t want help. He wants Gabriel. He wants Dean.

 

            The nurse comes with the bandages, and in a few deft movements the doctor binds Sam’s hand, staunching the flow of blood. After a short pause, he mentions psychiatric help, saying that the hospital can be a very traumatic place, but Sam pushes past him without a word and leaves the room, leaves Cas, leaves the hospital, and drives back to the motel. He parks the car, locks it, and shuts himself inside the motel. Then, he slides down the back of the door and lets himself completely fall apart. He screams; he sobs; he slams the back of his head against the door and feels absolutely no pain. He is numb to everything but the pain inside him, tearing him apart piece by piece.

 

            Sam doesn’t know how much later it is when a knock comes at the motel door. He ignores it, continuing to stare blankly ahead of him, his tears drying on his cheeks.

 

            Another knock. “Open the door, Winchester!” a British-inflected voice commands, sounding bored. “It’s Christmas!”

 

            “Go away,” Sam croaks.

 

            Crowley sighs, and then the door whips open, taking Sam with it. He lands against the first bed, his head knocking against the mattress.

 

            “God, Moose, you look horrible,” Crowley muses as he saunters into the motel room, shutting the door behind him with a wave of his hand. “A little too much tequila last night?”

 

            “Go away,” Sam repeats, stronger this time.

 

            “Where’re Dean and his boyfriend?” Crowley scans the motel room, his eyes coming to rest on Sam again. Then, he finally seems to feel the sadness hanging in the air, and he squints at Sam. “You seem particularly more miserable than usual. Bad breakup?”

 

            Sam laughs, and it sounds crazed even to his ears. “Go back to Hell.”

 

            “Hell can wait.” Crowley grabs Sam by his arms and hoists him onto the bed, looking into his eyes. “What happened?”

 

            “Why do you care?” All Sam wants is to be left alone; he’s seriously considering killing Crowley where he stands.

 

            “Because it’s Christmas.” Crowley says this like it’s obvious. “I was looking forward to a Winchester gala.”

 

            “Not this year.” _Not ever_.

 

            Crowley sighs, moving over to the Christmas tree and picking up a present. “Mind if I open this?” He holds it up to show Sam, but Sam doesn’t look, doesn’t speak. “Hmm,” Crowley muses, shaking the gift once. “Sounds exciting.” He sets it on the table and rips off the red wrapping paper, littering the floor with color. “Of course it’s a book,” he complains, holding the large volume up in front of him. “’On the Passages Between Worlds,’” he reads, sounding bored. “’Traveling Through the Realms With Ease.’ I’m falling asleep just reading the cover.”

 

            Sam’s fully prepared to tell Crowley to keep it when Crowley’s words hit him full-force. He’s on his feet in seconds, crossing the motel room and grabbing the book from Crowley’s hands. “What did you say?” he gasps, scanning the cover with disbelieving eyes.

 

            “I suppose this _is_ just the kind of thing that gets you all warm and tingly.”

 

            “Shut up.” Sam flips open the book, scanning the pages feverishly. “Who was this from?”

 

            “Who cares? It’s the epitome of bad gifts.”

 

            “ _Crowley._ ”

 

            Crowley heaves a massive sigh and rolls his eyes. “The tag said ‘Dean and Cas.’”

 

            Sam’s stomach lurches, not just because of the mentioning of his brother’s name, but because he’s found it. He knows how to get them back. So, without another word to Crowley, Sam rushes out of the motel, starts the Impala, and drives.

 

* * *

 

 

            Cas is still holding Dean’s hand when he twitches, his fingers brushing against Cas’s gently. Cas immediately rises to his feet, his eyes locked on Dean’s face. “Dean?” he pleads, not wanting the hope to rise inside of him but not able to stop it.

 

            Dean’s eyes remain closed, his face still and smooth. Cas refuses to crumble, clinging to the prospect that maybe Dean isn’t dead, that maybe a life together is still possible—

 

            Dean’s fingers tighten around Cas’s. Cas’s heart feels like it’s growing wings of its own and taking flight; he leans over Dean and takes Dean’s face in his hands. “Dean, can you hear me?”

 

            Dean’s eyelids flutter; then, his lips part, shaping Cas’s name. “Somebody get a doctor!” Cas shouts, wishing he could simply heal Dean himself but knowing that it’s not an option, especially not here. Then, to Dean, he says, “Come back to me. I love you; come back to me, please.”

 

            “Don’t shoot him!” Dean shouts, sitting straight up in bed. He nearly knocks into Cas, who jerks out of the way at the last second; the tubes tug against his mouth and nose, pulling taught, and Dean grabs at them with shaking hands. “What the hell?”

 

            “Stop!” Cas says, fear striking him, and he gently but forcefully pushes Dean down. “Stop. It’s okay now.” His eyes fill up with tears. “It’s okay now.

           

            A nurse bursts into Dean’s room. “Step away from him please,” she commands, and Cas hesitantly does so. She spends the next few minutes fussing over Dean, Cas standing behind her less-than-patiently, wanting to touch Dean again and reassure himself that he’s not in some sort of dream-state, that this is real.

 

            Finally, after what seems like an agonizingly long time, the nurse steps back and gives Dean an appraising look-over. “All vitals seem normal; your heartbeat is regular and steady. I’ll call the doctor in and have him give you a second look.” She ghosts out of the hospital room, and Cas moves closer to Dean, taking his hand again like some sappy teenager. He can’t help it; he needs to be sure that Dean is real.

 

            “Hey,” Dean says, giving Cas a small smile, and Cas knows it’s real.

 

            “Hey,” he returns, sitting on the side of Dean’s bed. “Merry Christmas.”

 

            “Of course,” Dean groans, rolling his eyes. “It can’t be a Winchester Christmas without somebody getting shot.”

 

            Cas hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I should have been quicker… I should have never gone to that bank in the first place.”

 

            “It is _not_ your fault,” Dean says, and despite his hoarse voice, he manages to convey absolute conviction. When Cas refuses to meet Dean’s eyes, Dean says, “Look at me, Cas. This is not your fault. If you want to blame anybody, blame me. I was the one who put myself up like a target for that guy.”

 

            Cas looks at Dean then, his eyes soft and sad. “I could never blame you.”

 

            Dean can’t hug Cas, so he settles for a not-so-macho hand squeeze. Then, he frowns, glancing behind Cas. “Where’s Sam?”

 

            Cas instantly feels horrible; how could he have forgotten about Sam? “I… I don’t know,” he admits, embarrassed. “He left a while ago—he said he would be right back…”

 

            “Does he think I’m dead?”

 

            Cas’s face grows ashen. “I don’t know.”

 

            Dean fixes his eyes on Cas. “I need you to find him, Cas. Please. Make sure he’s not doing anything stupid.”

 

            Cas doesn’t want to leave Dean, but how can he say no? It’s Sam. “I promise.” He presses a soft kiss to Dean’s lips before vanishing with a flutter of wings, leaving Dean’s lips tingling and his heart heavy with worry.

 

* * *

 

 

            Sam leaves the last store, a small grocery bag clenched in his hands. He drives out of town, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel tighter and tighter with each mile. The book sits on the passenger seat, and Sam glances at it every other minute as if it might disappear.

 

            He knows it’s crazy to think that he can retrieve his brother and Gabriel from the dead with a spell, but he has to try.

 

            Once Sam gets back to the motel, he quickly sets up his materials. They’re simple things—ginger root, basil leaves, fresh cinnamon—except for the last bag. Sam hadn’t even known if he could find it at first; he’d gotten lucky, seeing the hunter sign outside a door, even luckier when they had what he was looking for. Just before he’d left, the woman from whom he’d purchased it had frowned at him and asked, “Just what do you plan to do with dried African dream root?”

 

            Sam had given her a forced smile and a shrug. “Just a little searching.” Then, he’d left, shutting the door on any more questions.

 

            Now, he pulls the root carefully out of the bag, setting it in the wrought-iron bowl with the rest of the ingredients. Using a pestle, he meticulously grinds the ingredients down to a fine powder and uses the powder like a drink mix, stirring it into a glass of water. It turns a brackish black, and Sam gags; he has to pinch his nose in order to choke it down. Then, once he’s drained the glass, he turns quickly to the book. “ _Educ me ad inferos_ ,” he chants, the Latin rolling awkwardly off his tongue despite years of exorcising demons. “ _Da mihi virtus redire quos amo. Sani et converte in unam partem. Maxime prohibere grassantes umbrae daemonibus angelos respice ad me e caelo et inferno, quia nutricii peccati horrore præter imaginatione, et in fine saeculi._ ”

 

            The last word meets empty air, and Sam waits, his body tensed for whatever is to come. When a few seconds pass without any change, Sam feels the pain setting in again, the sadness seeping into his bones, and he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “No!” he exclaims, knocking the book off the table in a bout of frustration. “It has to work! It has to… it…”

 

            Sam blinks, his words trailing off. Then, he keels forward, blacking out before his head hits the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Sam. Sammy. Moose!”

 

            Sam sits up so quickly his head spins; he puts his hands out to balance himself, and his left hand collides with a shoe. “What…?” His gaze travels upwards, tracing first a leg, then a torso, and then…

 

            “How can you _possibly_ have gotten yourself here?” Gabriel shakes his head. “You Winchesters. It’s like you aren’t even aware that you _can_ actually _die_!”

 

            Somehow, Sam manages to clamber to his feet, and it’s like Gabriel’s come back to life all over again; he wraps his arms around Gabriel tightly, choking back a sob. “It worked,” he manages, gripping the back of Gabriel’s jacket tightly. “It actually _worked._ ”

 

            “What worked?” Gabriel asks slowly, pulling away with some effort from Sam’s embrace. He raises an eyebrow at Sam. “To whom did you have to sell your soul in order to get a ride _here?_ ”

 

            It’s only then that Sam finally looks around, and then he wishes he hadn’t.

 

            “Where the hell are we?” he whispers, feeling his heartbeat pick up. All around him, trees stretch on and on and on, but they’re not like any trees Sam has ever seen before; they loom tall and dark, like a forest of nightmares, reaching down with scraggly, demanding branches and creaking in a non-existent wind. They press in on Sam and Gabriel tightly, shutting off any light from above and filling the gaps below with some sort of dark green glow.

 

            Gabriel laughs shortly. “This isn’t Hell.” He spreads his arms, taking a step backwards. “ _This_ is angel purgatory. Do you know how one ends up here, Sam?” He doesn’t give Sam a chance to respond. “By _betraying_ heaven. For example, running away from the family and posing as a Norse god.” He gives Sam a pressing look. “So, I’ll ask again. _How did you get here?_ ”

 

            “I- I found this book, and it had a spell in it… I promise you, Gabriel, that I didn’t make any deals. My soul remains intact.”

 

            “I suppose that should have been obvious.” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Nobody will make deals with Winchesters anymore.”

 

            “Look,” Sam says, placing a hand on Gabriel’s upper arm. “I’m here now, and I know how to get you back.”

 

            “There is no way back.” Gabriel sighs, gently removing Sam’s hand from his arm. “I know you’re used to just waltzing in and out of Heaven and Hell, but this place is different. Nobody escapes.”

 

            “You did.” Sam locks eyes with Gabriel. “You came back, and not _two days later_ , I had to watch you _die again_.” He feels it all over again: the shock, the horror, the agonizing pain, and the numbness, seizing him and almost paralyzing him. “You can come back again.”

 

            “Last time was different.” Gabriel looks at the ground. “I didn’t actually… _die_ last time.”

 

            Sam feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. “What?”

 

            “I faked my death, okay?” Gabriel sighs, running a hand over his face. “The version of me Lucifer stabbed back in that hotel was just another copy. After that, I decided that the best thing to do was just to let you two handle it, so I went into hiding in the safest place I knew—Heaven. Of course, when the gates opened and dumped every angel out onto the streets, I couldn’t hide there anymore, so I just traveled a bit until I heard your prayer. Then, well…” Gabriel wiggles his eyebrows at Sam. “You know what happened.”

 

            “Why did you wait?” Sam knows it’s neither the time nor the place, but he has to ask. “You could have popped in as soon as the gates opened, maybe sooner, but you didn’t.”

 

            “Don’t you think that I wanted to? Of course I could have arrived sooner, but then what? Dean doesn’t trust me, Cas doesn’t trust me—hell, they might’ve killed me themselves.”

 

            “That’s not true—“ Sam tries to protest, but Gabriel cuts him off.

 

            “I doubt saving your asses from a few pagan gods and goddesses once would have made much of a difference in Dean’s eyes, and we all know that Cas is Dean’s little bitch.”

 

            A spike of anger surges through Sam. “Don’t say that!”

 

            Gabriel actually looks sorry for a moment. Then, his expression hardens. “Just leave, Sam. I can’t let you get trapped here forever; you deserve better.”

 

            “No.” Sam steps towards Gabriel, his foot knocking against a tree root. He stumbles but regains his balance. “I’m not going to leave you.”

 

            “You don’t have a choice!”

 

            “Yes, I do, and I choose not to spend the rest of my life hating myself for leaving you to rot in some forest when I could’ve saved you!”

 

            “You can’t save me, Sam!” Then, Gabriel’s hands grab Sam’s shoulders, and he pulls him in, pressing his lips to Sam’s roughly. Sam melts into the kiss, putting his hands on Gabriel’s hips and attempting to bring him closer, but Gabriel pulls away too quickly, his eyes soft and sad. “I need you to save yourself.”

 

            “If I leave without you,” Sam whispers, his voice trembling, “I may as well be dead.”

 

            “Don’t be a melodramatic teenage girl.”

 

            Sam chokes out a strangled-sounding laugh. “I love you.” He grabs Gabriel and pulls him into another hug, holding him to him like if he lets go, the entire world will fall apart and spiral into oblivion. “I _love_ you.”

 

            Sam can feel Gabriel’s smile against his ear. “I know.”

 

            Sam feels a tear dribble down his cheek. “Don’t make me leave you.”

 

            “I’m not _making_ you do anything. I’m _asking_.”

 

            “Really?” Sam manages another laugh, this one garbled by a sob. “Do you ever just _ask_ someone to do something?”

 

            A pause. Then, the most serious Sam’s ever heard him, Gabriel whispers, “You’re different.”

 

            Sam pulls back and looks at Gabriel, and this time it’s Sam who initiates the kiss, covering Gabriel’s mouth with his own and grabbing at Gabriel’s hair just short of desperately. When they pull away, both of their cheeks are flushed, but _passionate_ isn’t a word that comes to mind; instead, there’s the taste of _pain, sorrow,_ and _farewell_ coating Sam’s mouth.

 

            “That explains a lot.”

 

            Sam whips around, one hand instinctively going towards his belt, the other coming to rest on Gabriel’s wrist. When he recognizes a familiar trench coat, he removes both of his hands and places them awkwardly at his sides, feeling his face heat up.

 

            “Little brother,” Gabriel says, his lighthearted voice expertly masking the heaviness of earlier. “Long time, no see.”

 

            “What are you doing here, Cas?” Sam asks, surprise and embarrassment battling for dominance inside him.

 

            “Dean sent me to look for you and make sure that you weren’t doing anything stupid in his name.” Cas glances around him in distaste. “I guess this qualifies as ‘stupid.’”

 

            “Dean?” Sam can’t help the excitement that rushes over him. “He’s alive?”

 

            “Whoa,” Gabriel pipes in from beside Sam. “Time out. Dean was dead again?”

 

            Cas looks mildly annoyed. “Not technically. He fell into a coma and recently awoke.”

 

            Gabriel whistles. “Coma. That’s a new one, right?”

 

            Cas ignores him. “Sam, this place is dangerous. We have to leave while we still can.”

 

            Sam shakes his head. “Not without Gabriel.”

 

            Cas’s forehead creases. “Sam, I understand why you came here, but Gabriel is beyond our help. Our Father designed this afterlife especially for those of us who disobeyed him—“

 

            “You pulled me _out of the cage_. You’ve escaped _Purgatory_.”

 

            “That was different—“

 

            “Please,” Sam implores. “You have to try.”

 

            Cas looks skeptical. “The rip in the fabric of this world… I don’t know if it can hold the three of us together.”

 

            “ _Please_.” Sam uses the full force of his puppy-dog eyes, and Cas crumbles.

 

            “Okay,” he relents, extending his hands to Gabriel and Sam. “Hold on tightly. This is probably going to hurt.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean runs his hand along his Impala as he passes it, seeing his reflection wavering in the windows. “Hey, baby,” he purrs, tapping the Impala’s hood with a flat hand. “You’re much better than public transportation.” He can still smell the stench of body odor and cheap plastic sticking to his clothes from the bus he took back to the motel; wrinkling his nose, he slips into the motel room, shutting the door softly behind him.

 

            Before he turns on the lights, he wonders briefly if running away from a hospital is a felony. He didn’t break any equipment or injure anyone; he only popped the window off and shimmed down to the fire escape. He smiles slightly; if they had let him go like he had asked, he wouldn’t have _had_ to escape in the first place.

 

            Shrugging, Dean flicks on the lights and begins to move across the room, but then he spots the bowl and glass sitting on the table, the book he got Sam for Christmas sitting on the floor. Wincing, he bends down and picks up the book, scanning the page it’s open to.

 

            “Crap,” he mumbles, glancing first at the spell and then at the bowl and glass. “Damnit, Sam.” He throws the book on the table and sits down heavily on one of the beds, holding a hand to his chest in an attempt to numb the throbbing pain of the bullet wound.

 

            Dean’s in the middle of attempting to figure out just where Sam might’ve gone when the motel room rumbles, the picture frames on the walls clattering against the plaster. One falls, then the next; Dean scoots back on the bed, reaching under his pillow for his pistol. A loud wind begins to whip through the motel room, growing in noise and intensity until Dean has to grip the edges of the bed tightly to keep from being blown around. He squints into the maelstrom, which begins to crackle with bright blue lightning, and shouts something, but it gets lost in the storm.

 

            Just when Dean thinks the wind will tear the entire room apart, the storm ends abruptly, all the wind and lightning and noise sucked up all at once as if through a vacuum. There’s a thump, and then a familiar voice says, “Next time, let’s not take the way out that almost kills us.”

 

            “There was no other way,” Cas grumps, standing and brushing himself off. He sees Dean just as Dean sees him, and Cas’s eyes widen. “You’re supposed to be at the hospital.”

 

            Then, Gabriel stands, and Dean points at him. “He’s supposed to be dead!”

 

            “How many times have I heard a Winchester say that?” Gabriel muses, leaning against the wall. “We all know dead is relative with you two.”

 

            Sam stumbles to his feet, using Cas to support himself. “Dean?” When he sees Dean, his eyes light up. “Thank God you’re okay!”

 

            Dean blinks at the three of them. “Yeah, right back at you.”

 

            “Did they discharge you?” Cas asks, concerned.

 

            Dean rubs the back of his neck, chuckling. “Not exactly.”

 

            Cas frowns at Dean. “What does that mean?”

 

            Dean stands, throwing up his hands. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” He claps his hands together, ignoring the dull throb in his chest. “I’m here, you’re here, Sam’s here, we’re all alive, and it’s Christmas. _That’s_ what matters.”

 

            Cas looks like he wants to argue, but at the last moment, he settles on a smile. Beside him, Gabriel clears his throat. “I think you forgot someone, Dean-O.”

 

            “Yeah, okay, you’re alive too. We’re all crying tears of joy.”

 

            Gabriel wiggles his eyebrows and scoots closer to Sam. “Dean—“

 

            Dean holds up a hand. “We need to get out the whisky before I can have this conversation. This is my little brother we’re talking about here.”

 

            Sam’s cheeks redden. “I’ll go get that,” he mumbles, disappearing into the kitchen; with a smirk towards Dean, Gabriel follows Sam.

 

            Dean sighs. “He’s really alive, then?”

 

            Cas nods. “It’s a long story.”

 

            Dean shakes his head. “You don’t tell me your story, and I won’t tell you mine, okay?”

 

            “Okay.”

 

            Dean leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Cas’s lips. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

 

            Cas smiles softly against Dean’s lips. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”


End file.
